


Punch-Ups and Lice and Everything Nice

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: A bit of cheeky dom/sub, A little bit of graphic language, Bad Flirting, Bad Matchmaking, Culture Shock, Fighting as Flirtation, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Kraglin tries to woo Yondu using Centaurian methods, M/M, Ravager-typical violence, dom!yondu, it goes.... as well as can be expected, sub!kraglin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 07:34:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12452649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: Best way to woo a Centaurian? Use Centaurian flirting techniques, of course! Unfortunately, Kraglin enlists Peter's help. It doesn’t take him long to regret it.





	Punch-Ups and Lice and Everything Nice

**Author's Note:**

> **_I just realized I misspelled Kraglin in the initial summary sdjfghskdfhglsdfg_ Anyway. Another tumblr prompt-fic fill! Once I've finished the one after this, I'll open slots again, so keep your eyes peeled for that.**

Buying an almanac of Rare Andromedain Species because he'd caught a glimpse of blue skin and a red crest on the cover was all well and good, but Kraglin remembered far too late that he couldn't actually read.

No matter. The skinny seventeen-year-old had few other uses. Yondu wouldn't mind if Kraglin borrowed him for a while – especially not since Kraglin was doing this, all of it, for him.

Not that Yondu knew it. Or at least, not yet.

For now, he told Yondu that a number of Peter-sized holes had been blasted in his M-ship on his last job and he needed the brat to sweep for shrapnel before he started welding her up. Then he cajoled, threatened, and (when that failed) bribed Quill into compliance. And secrecy. That was vital to his mission, though it cost extra. Kraglin wound up plying the kid with five of those syrupy-sweet ration bars he loved.

Or used to love. Peter Quill was growing up, and for every inch he gained, his sweet tooth faded. It wouldn't be long before Kraglin had to change tactics – maybe even stop treating Quill like a child and _pay_ him.

For now though, the syrup-bars worked. Kraglin sat on his bed with Quill cross-legged in front of him, the Terran reading off the scrolling page.

“Repeat that bit,” Kraglin said, sitting on his hands so as not to bounce. “About mating rituals among Centaurians.”

Peter's barely-swallowed giggle told him he wasn't being subtle in the slightest. Kraglin didn't care. He wasn't trying. Let the kid laugh – those syrup-bars depended on his lips staying buttoned. But he started from the top and Kraglin nodded to himself, sinking into the rhythm of the words.

Gifts of raw meat and jewelry. Easy.

It was Kraglin who first picked Quill up in his M-ship, being deemed the most personable Ravager of the bunch (not saying much, considering the competition). That covered meat. He cased every shiny his cap'n glanced in the seedy Knowhere bazaars, slipping them into his pockets so boss didn't have to. So technically, he'd already fulfilled those first two criteria.

But Yondu had yet to notice his affections. Clearly, Kraglin needed a new angle – and this tome held the key.

“What next?” he asked, prodding Quill with his boot to get him reading again. Quill's nose had gone a little crinkly – almost like he was staving off a laughing fit. He tapped the projection, once to make it flare in acknowledgment and twice to dismiss it. He removed his hologloves, pinching the mesh between his teeth and shimmying off the tight-fitting fabric finger by finger.

Kraglin frowned. “You ain't finished."

“I memorized all I need to, Krags. Look, if you wanna nookie-nookie with Yondu, you've got to follow my lead. I'm now prime scholar in Centaurian mating habits – and next on the list's going to be a fun one.”

Kraglin waited. Then, impatient as Peter let the pause linger - “ _What?_ ”

“Well,” said the kid, making his voice as ominous and low as it could get while being jerked around his throat by puberty. “Assuming Yondu's the chick in this scenario, you've gotta buy him flowers, then something sweet. Proper confectionery shit, none of these.” He shook his bag of syrup bars, their filmy packages crackling. “Then you have to decorate your room all pretty, cover your bed in rose petals, invite him back there, lay him down, and do things to him that I'm going to puke if I think about for too long.”

Kraglin frowned. “You sayin' there ain't nothin' in there for two guys who want to do the do?”

“Fraid not. Seems most Centaurians only fuck to make babies. Luckily for you -”

“Captain ain't most Centaurians,” said Kraglin at the same time. He flushed, remembering the moment he'd realized he might have a chance, when Yondu ordered a bot whose body aligned to classic male biology, and in front of all his men and without a given shit, asked whether his party piece came in 'large'.

Yondu definitely had wide-ranging tastes. Whether those tastes extended to a lanky toothpick of a Hraxian - well. That remained to be seen.

But one thing was for sure, and that was that Peter was lying. Little was known about the Centaurians, except that they were uncontacted, knowing nothing of the galaxy beyond their dealings with the odd poacher. They had a symbiotic connection with a rare strain of ore, whose lodes were found nowhere else in the mapped universe. And they were the sort of savages who sold their own brats into slavery. That was it - three facts; the grand extent of Kraglin's knowledge. They sounded like a rough-edged people, crude and harsh as Yondu himself. Their methods of wooing one another couldn't possibly be so... _soft._

Dammit, he'd wasted all those syrup bars for nothing. 

Quill would only spout denials if Kraglin accused him of lying. Kraglin had to handle this alone.

Once he'd ushered the kid from his cabin, he flipped on the datapad and flicked through page after page until he located some that contained pictures. And what pictures they were. Gloriously salient blue men tussled in the dirt, stealing each other's hunt kills and snapping at one another, before finally – perfect! - kissing each other on the lips.

Now that was more like it. Kraglin didn't bother checking the next page. So much for Quill's attempt to scupper his romantic endeavors. He knew what he had to do.

Next time Yondu swaggered into the training ring on the _Eclector's_ upper deck and opened a bout, shucking off his coat and standing half-bared, cross-hatched with drunken tattoos and sweat-grime and scars Kraglin longed to dip his tongue into, Kraglin cracked his knuckles. He sprung from his perch on a nearby crate.

“I'll fight ya,” he said, and hauled his jumpsuit down, lashing the arms around his skinny waist.

Yondu snorted. “This oughta be good.”

 

* * *

 

It was. Very good indeed – lots of fun, highly recommended entertainment. For the audience, that was.

Kraglin reeled back. His vision was a whirl of red coats and jeering faces, of boots stomping metal-plated floors and hollers dulled to primal hoots by the ring in his ears. But he couldn’t give in. He wouldn’t. This was his chance, to prove to his captain that he was worthy of his bed. While Kraglin might be skinnier than the average beergut-toting pirate, he was Ravager through and through.

If he wanted something, he took it. And he wanted Yondu.

Wanted him with all the greed of the galaxy, more than gold or gilt or platinum. Wanted him reaching for him, moaning for him, writhing on filthy sheets as Kraglin took him into his mouth and sucked him apart. Wanted to kiss his thighs and lick his ass and slide into it until they moved to the same beat, pulsing together under the light of the stars.

Shame that right now, they were engaged in a different sort of dance.

Kraglin swallowed, throat coated thickly in copper. Blue smeared his arm, a clash against brown hair. His skin was bleach-white and translucent from lack of sun, thin enough that you could see the bones when he held his hand up to the light. He bled darker than Yondu – inky navy at odds with Yondu’s indigo.

Or at least, he thought Yondu bled that color. He’d only seen it once – after the captain dived into a gunfight to collect his whimpering Terran, who’d curled up with his headphones over his ears like the music would make him immune to plasma shot. Now, nine years later, the blood on the floor, where Kraglin’s face had been used as an impromptu mop, was all his own.

The captain bounced on the balls of his feet. He’d peeled his boots off, as had Kraglin. Their stripped leathers lay side-by-side, like they might one day at the foot of Kraglin’s crusty, unwashed bed. Sweat-stench saturated the training room from its honeycomb walls, designed to absorb plasma bolts and screams, to the crowd who had gathered to watch their captain beat their first mate to a pulp.

So far, they hadn’t been disappointed.

This was a weapons-free match. They all had to be, where Yondu was concerned. The captain smirked at Kraglin. The knuckles on his right hand had split, but not enough to drip.

“Don’t’chu dare surrender,” he purred.

Kraglin dashed the crust from his nostrils. He swallowed what he could and spat the rest.

His body was one lumpy bruise, swollen from top to bottom. His chest bore the impression of a roundhouse kick, and Yondu had proven early on that he wasn’t above groin shots. Kraglin already knew he wasn’t going to win. But this wasn’t about winning. It was about declaring himself worthy. About proving himself as Yondu's competitor, his suitor, his mate.

He rolled his thin shoulders, cataloguing the pains and dismissing them one by one. Then he fixed his eyes on Yondu, fists empty without their knife hilts, and _charged._

 

* * *

 

Peter came to visit him in the medbay. That was sweet. Kraglin didn’t much like sweet, so he told the brat to fuck off. But it seemed he wasn’t here to pour his mawkish Terran heart out and apologize for landing him in this mess. He just tweaked Kraglin’s broken nose, earning himself a fist to the solar plexus, and scowled like Kraglin had done him a disservice.

“What the hell are you _doing?_ I thought you wanted to _seduce_ him, not _fight_ him!”

“I don’t need yer help,” Kraglin croaked. His last remaining tooth had been knocked from his bottom jaw. Doc Mijo was prepping the casts, smelting a lead replica that was perfect down to the root. Kraglin tongued the gap, so used to the taste of blood by now that it barely registered. “I got this covered.”

“Where’s the flowers? The music? The _pizzaz_? Did you even _listen_ to what I told you?”

Kraglin’s glare told him everything he needed to know. Peter threw up his hands.

“ _By the stars._ You’re insufferable. I don’t know what Yondu sees in you –“

“Wait.” Kraglin caught Peter’s wrist. “What do you mean, 'what Yondu sees in me'?” 

“Aw. You’re _adorable._ ”

Kraglin’s eyes narrowed. Just because he couldn’t best his captain in a fistfight didn’t mean one weedy Terran was a match. By the time Doc Mijo limped into view, presenting the tooth with a bored flourish, Peter was sporting a twisted ear and a remarkably improved attitude.

“Oh, most terrifying and formidable Ravager, I meant no offence.”

Mijo crooked one of her many eyebrows, as she winched Kraglin’s mouth open with a pair of adjustable pliers and set the eyetooth, drizzled with disinfectant, on the tender divot of his gum.

“The hell’ve you done to him,” she muttered. Kraglin gargled as she tapped the tooth into place, her tiny hammer making _tings_ that coincided with the pain. Peter had learned his lesson. It was none of her business, and Kraglin didn’t fancy sowing rumors of his crush any further than they'd already spread.

“All I’m saying, oh wise and fearsome first mate, is that you’re going about this the wrong way.”

Perhaps Peter hadn’t learned his lesson after all. But when Mijo made her finishing adjustments and Kraglin gnashed his newly-repaired chompers in Quill’s direction, the boy was smart enough to scarper.

Yondu welcomed him back to the Bridge with a bump of fists and a grin.

“Good match,” was all he said. “Should do it again sometime.”

Kraglin was still at the stage where he winced and hissed whenever he moved too fast. His muscle felt tenderized, as if he was being prepped for the stewpot under Taserface's mallet. He nodded - then regretted it when a spasm jigged down his back, stiff from being hauled over Yondu’s brawny shoulders and deposited on the floor.

Time to step up his game.

 

* * *

 

Phase Two of Kraglin’s Infallible Plot to Fuck His Captain was implemented seven standards later.

They’d hunted the ship from dusk til dawn. Or what would’ve passed for dawn, had they been on a planet whose rotation matched Xandarian Central Time: a system of calculated shift-cycles used by all spacefarers in an effort to reduce jet-lag. They’d isolated a rad-signature on the scanners, just as the buzzer proclaimed the end of Kraglin's day. Now, twelve hours later, the thrill of the chase was all that kept him awake.

But captain led the boarding party. Kraglin refused to be anywhere but by his side.

The ship – a merchant vessel, chased from the Kree trade routes by guerrilla-raids – was a disappointment. There were no broadsides, no exchanges of plasma and flak, filling the void brighter than fireworks at a funeral. Not even a bit of good old-fashioned barging, two galleons charging headlong towards one another like hoarbeasts on a Jotunheim plain.

As soon as the Ravagers sent out their hail, they received a surrender in return. The terms were simple: the Kree would forfeit all cargo, in exchange for being left with intact oxygenerators, a secure hull, and enough fuel quarts to chug to the nearest port.

It was a barter, of sorts. Basic supplies for the Kree, and a safe haul for the Ravagers. Although they held all the trump cards, wearing down their opponents through a combination of siege and attrition would still cost them men. And when you were an exiled Ravager captain, few prospects to your name and fewer clients on your speed-dial, new recruits were hard to come by. Better let the threat of violence reduce violence's actual necessity.

It was the  _practical_ option. Kraglin couldn't deny it. But he'd been spoiling for a fight, and now he had to grit his teeth, re-hilt his knives, and make nice with a bunch of Kree traders.

Worse, he had to watch his captain do the same.

Boss didn’t like Kree. Went without saying. He wouldn’t let his prejudices sabotage an honest money-making expedition, but Kraglin knew he wasn’t happy.

When did he start noticing all those details? The tense back, the grin that peeled wide enough to show off snaggly silver molars? Kraglin had been pinpointing Yondu's tells for so long that he didn’t remember when he'd begun.

He wanted to cheer his captain up. What better way to do that, than to follow the almanac's suggestion and initiate a game of chase?

Kraglin wasn’t unfamiliar with the concept. He’d spent a while observing Orloni mating patterns, psyching himself up. They played this particular game around the  _Eclector’s_ vents, clawed feet pattering like peas in a rainmaker as they scuttled up shafts too steep for a man to scale without adhesive gloves.

It was simple, as courtships went. One would snaffle a kill and run with it. If they were hungry, they scarfed it en route. However, if they had alternative appetites, the chase would be short and sweet. Once cornered, they'd present the prey, roll belly-up, and initiate a round of frenzied humping.

Kraglin wasn’t sure if it was PC to compare and contrast Orloni orgies with sacred bond-rituals from Alpha Centauri-IV. However, on a ship like the  _Eclector,_ the Orloni were the only insight Kraglin had into the ways of the wild.

Yondu had finished tallying stock. The ship was ferrying agricultural supplies and pallets full of dried produce: not an especially lavish cargo, but always in demand. Once the last crate had been stowed, he began rifling the pockets of the crew. And, in a flash of iridescent moonstone, Kraglin saw his opportunity.

Yondu unclasped the necklace from a Kree girl's slender throat. She was from the white-skinned underclass; must have landed her job as the result of a positive discrimination scheme, which she was no doubt berating in hindsight. Yondu scarcely had chance to hold the necklace up to the light, admiring the spooling silver thread, the beads of pearly star-opal. Next moment, Kraglin pounced.

He grabbed a chilly handful. Wrenched.

Yondu dropped it – from shock, more than anything. The beads rasped through his hand like the links on an emergency engine-starter chain.

Kraglin spared a moment to flip him a cheeky wink, heart already thundering in his throat. Then he turned and ran.

For a moment, there was silence.

It didn’t last long.

The roar started quietly. It burgeoned like the rattle when they disengaged their jump drive in the heart of a meteorite storm, space rock whirling like snow in a blizzard:

“ _Obfonteri!_ ”

Kraglin grinned to himself. It was working.

He pounded through the galleons' airlocks, which were linked like the navels of conjoined twins. He expected pursuit. He expected Yondu to cuss him out, blue faced and panting (because cardio wasn’t high on the priority-list of a guy who could kill anyone in the time it took for him to wet lips, purse, and blow).

Kraglin was expecting damn near anything, except what he got.

He frowned at the whistle. He froze at the prick of an arrow tip. It poked the thinning patch on his crown that he combed his mohawk over every morning. The necklace slid from his fingers, a slithery silver glissade.

The almanac hadn't mentioned this.

“You,” said Yondu, “are in deep shit, boy.” The words injected fear into Kraglin’s spine. Yondu raised his voice, addressing those too stupid to scarper the moment they shared a corridor with a radioactive arrow. “First rule of Ravagers?”

“Steal from e-everyone, sir!”

The stutter was almost unanimous. Kraglin didn’t join in; he was too busy closing his eyes. His awareness had narrowed, thin as a whisker. It honed on the pin-sized burn on the top of his scalp.

Hot. Hot as a drop of pure plasma, flicked on his hair. It would eat through skin and skull and brain tissue, then keep going until it plopped from the bottom of his groin.

Kraglin’s guts pre-empted it. They’d already evacuated, dropping far below his feet as Yondu stepped up to soak Kraglin in his bodyheat. His chest rose and fell against his back, pressing just enough for the leather to stick.

“And the second rule?”

“Not each other!”

“S’right.” Yondu stooped to one side, sweeping up the necklace. Kraglin pictured him threading it between his fingers: a priceless cat’s cradle. He heard the greedy clink of his smile. “Else you gotta deal with me. Now, Obfonteri. I don’t know what the fuck you was thinkin’. I don’t know if you’ve been at the moonshine, or if it’s yer stars-damned time of the month. But you just broke Code, boy, so you’d better have a damn fine excuse.”

Kraglin swallowed. His throat stuck to itself, following the spitty mouthful down. “I just,” he croaked.

“What?”

“I just…”

“Spit it out, boy.”

He hadn’t meant for this to happen. He’d pictured this day finishing with Yondu whimpering into his mouth, meaty blue thighs locked on his waist, dragging him down against the mattress. Of heated blue under his fingertips, brine on his lips, his captain parting around the point of Kraglin's tongue. Not of him floating outside the airlock, denied the flash of their banished faction’s lights over his grave.

There was only one thing left to do.

Kraglin turned around. The arrow dug in, just a little.

“I’m sorry sir,” he said. He wasn’t sure what Yondu saw in his eyes – remorse, defeat, shattered dreams. But it drained the sadism from him, and next thing he knew Yondu was retreating. Kraglin told himself he should be grateful, rather than missing the heat of that stout firecracker of a body, which burnt forever a few degrees hotter than his.

“Everyone out,” Yondu growled. His glare swung from one man to the next. Denied a show, the Ravagers hustled to obey. Yondu waited until they were gone before knuckling his temples with a groan. “Dammit, Obfonteri. The hell were you thinking? You got Huki-larvae chewin’ on yer brainstem?”

“N-no sir. At least, I don’t think so.” The necklace hung illuminated, each bead a ghost-white sphere. Kraglin dragged his focus to his captain’s face. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Could it be that Yondu had misinterpreted his proposal? Of course! He wasn’t used to being  _researched_  by potential bed-partners. Perhaps Kraglin needed to take that final step, to prove what he really wanted.

Yondu whistled the arrow back to his sheathe. “Yer an idjit, Obfonteri,” he said, arms crossed. Kraglin couldn’t deny it. He moved closer, rubbing the shiny ring where hair would never grow again. At least he had an excuse for premature balding.

“The hell would you go an’ do that for, in front of everyone?” Yondu continued. He seemed unperturbed by Kraglin’s closeness. Kraglin took that as a good sign. “Now I gots to brig ya for two days – and you oughta count yourself lucky you ain’t getting’ a keel-haul. Them’s two days I gotta suffer these idiots without a First Mate.”

Kraglin accepted the criticism, scrubbing the back of his neck. “Worth it though,” he muttered.

Yondu’s glower turned quizzical. “Huh?”

“I said worth it. Cause if I hadn’t started that fight… If I hadn’t stolen that necklace… Then sir, I wouldn’t be able to do this.”

He kissed him, dead on the mouth.

It was nothing like he’d imagined. For a start, Yondu didn’t melt against him, soft and pliant, lips parting to the fuck of Kraglin’s tongue. He stood stock-still instead, like an Orloni guarding its nest. His mouth was a hard line. His stubble hurt, where it grated on Kraglin’s. Kraglin had looped his arms around him, intending to dip Yondu in a tableau that harked back to Xandarian propaganda posters from the repopulation age.

Captain didn't comply. His waist remained stiff and blockish, solid as a chunk of fuselage.

Kraglin moved his mouth about. It was almost as much of a struggle to slot his tongue between Yondu’s teeth as it was to not feel stupid. When he drew back, panting and spitty from septum to chin, Yondu was staring at him.

Glaring, more like. And his snarl was twitching, and his implant glowed like thrusters at take-off, and his arrow vibrated in its sheath…

“Stop! Wait! Don’t kill him, don’t!”

They both jumped as Peter crashed out of the nearest duct, followed by an avalanche of cobwebs and dust. Yondu hid it better than Kraglin. His nerves stretched tighter than landing gear bands, which had a tendency to snap in rough take-offs, turbulence, or if you jumped up and down too hard in the cockpit.

“Boy,” snarled Yondu, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Whas goin’ on.”

“Look!  _Look!_ ” Peter held out the almanac – the traitor. Luckily, he was waving it too fast to see.

“Ain’t nothing,” said Kraglin hastily. “Kid’s bein’ a pest, dunno whas gotten into him. Must have been at them syrup bars, gotten hyper…”

“Look!” Peter insisted. He ran forwards, dodging Kraglin’s restraint attempts. He thrust the book so the hologram brushed the tip of Yondu’s nose.

Yondu’s scowl was no less terrifying when it was cross-eyed. “I can’t read this,” he said. Peter sighed, and held it at a more legible distance – but Yondu shook his head. “I can’t read. All I see’s some dumb pictures.”

“Right, right! On  _this_ page you see fighting, stealing, snogging.”

“What’s ‘snogging’?”

“We’ll get to that. And on this page?” Peter ran his hologlove to the bottom lower corner, prompting the pixels to flip. Kraglin, staring at the projection from behind, was treated to the mirror-version. But the pictures still conveyed a message.

Flowers. Raw meat. Confectionery – patted maize cakes by the looks of them, studded with berries. Piles of precious jewels.

“ _This_ is the courting page,” Peter said slowly, like he was explaining to children. “ _This…”_ He flipped the page in the opposite direction; Kraglin saw the rough-housing men, the snatched kill, the kiss. “This is the ‘how to challenge your rival to a death match’ page.”

Yondu rubbed his upper lip, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Mighty stupid of ‘em to put them so close together.”

“I don’t think they factored for folks who couldn’t read. You guys should really learn, by the way; your shitty communication skills can only be used as a plot device so many ti-“

“So boy,” Yondu continued. “What yer telling me is that Obfonteri here wants to warm my old bones. Right?”

Peter shuddered out a nod. “ _Ugh._ But yeah, you got that right. He just picked the wrong page.”

Yondu nodded. He set his hands on his hips. His tired scowl struck Kraglin with the inexplicable urge to study his toecaps and shuffle from boot to boot. Out of the corner of his eye, Quill gave into the temptation. Kraglin was made of sterner stuff; he resisted the urge, gazing at Yondu  _mano el man._

“You do realize,” said his captain, as the last of the glow washed from his eyes, “that I weren’t raised on Alpha Centauri? I don’t know none of this shit.”

Peter deflated. “So that was all for nothing?”

“Hardly. Y’see, now I know he ain’t trying to pick a fight with me, rob me, or put my whistle outta action so he can stab me in the gut –“

Ah. That explained why kissing was the last phase of a death-match declaration. Whoops. Kraglin pulled a sheepish face – then flinched, as his captain strode to him, looked him up and down, and grabbed a hot handful of dick. “Now I know all ya wanted was to fuck me,” he continued, uncaring for Peter’s retches in the background, “I’m thinkin’ ya need a different sort of discipline.”

Kraglin cajoled his knees into solidity. “Yessir,” he breathed. “My cabin or yours?”

Yondu’s grin was as sharp as his arrow and about as yellow. “How’s about right here?”

“…And that’s my cue! Have fun, use protection, please for the love of God clean up after yourselves…”

Yondu waited for the footsteps to fade, before treating his palmful to a languid squeeze. He kept the massage rolling, mashing the heel of his hand into Kraglin’s groin again and again, until Kraglin’s pulse was roaring in his ears and he half-expected steam to pour out. “Thassit boy,” he crooned, long nails scraping the zip. “That good?”

Kraglin nodded, helpless and eager. Yondu licked his lips. “ _Good._  You want more?”

“Y-yessir!”

“You need me? Want my ass? Or my  _mouth?"_  He dropped half an octave, like that was a bigger taboo. To him, it probably was.

“Anything, sir! Sir, please –“

“Well,” said Yondu, revoking all contact. Kraglin’s attempt to gather him in a hug fell through, as did his attempt to rake his nails along his implant, and rut his cock against his captain’s belt buckle to check he was enjoying this as much as Kraglin. “It’s gonna have to wait.”

Kraglin’s jaw dropped. “Huh?”

“You saw that stupid almanac. There’s a proper way of goin’ about this.”

“ _Huh?_ ”

Yondu ticked them off on his fingers. “Flowers, food, jewels. Whatever the order.” He set his coat to rights from where Kraglin had pawed it off his shoulder during their first stinging kiss. He looked insufferably smug. “Go on boy. Git. An’ remember – rubies’re my favorite.”

Kraglin had pushed his luck several parsecs further than usual. He didn’t risk arguing. “Sir, yessir,” he muttered, and went.

 

* * *

 

Next morning, there were flowers on Yondu's desk. Weedy ones, intended for use in cooking, snipped from the hydroponics wall at the back of the galley with blunt secateurs. But flowers nonetheless. There was even a syrup bar, squidged up by a pestle and mashed into a crude heart shape, arranged on a plate besides.

No rubies. But hey – it was only a matter of time.

Yondu propped his chin in his hands and smiled.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I'll post the next chapter of Straight Until Boiled tonight or tomorrow, I promise... Sorry I haven't been paying it as much attention lately! It's all written, I just have to force myself to edit it, hehehe.**

**Author's Note:**

> **Please leave comments?**


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